


old and fast friends

by shutUpGeoffrey



Category: SCP - Containment Breach, SCP Foundation
Genre: 035's pov, Canon-Typical Violence, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pre-Foundation, Slow Burn, Swearing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-03
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-16 03:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 16,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29818452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutUpGeoffrey/pseuds/shutUpGeoffrey
Summary: SCP-035 and 049 had met a long time ago, long before The Foundation was established. And then, through centuries, their paths were keep crossing together, again and again.
Relationships: SCP-035/SCP-049 (SCP Foundation)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	1. Interview

**Author's Note:**

> Neither English nor French is my native language, and I don’t have a lot of experience in writing in either of them, so I do apologise for any mistakes, misspellings, wrong punctuation and generally bad, awkward and unnatural language. I’m sorry!

Interviewer: Dr. Maddox Cantrell, Site-19

Interviewee: SCP-035

[BEGIN LOG]

Dr. Cantrell: SCP-035, the purpose of this interview-

SCP-035: (Interrupting) Ah! Maddy, you got a new haircut?

Dr. Cantrell: The purpose-

SCP-035: (Interrupting) Oh, no! Is that third-degree burns? I’m so sorry! I didn’t realise you were burned! How daft of me! I thought you just wanted to try some undercut. That’s unfortunate, really, I mean, with all your insecurities and all, you know, oh boy!

Dr. Cantrell: (Deep breath) SCP-035, this interview will determine the near future of your containment. And so, I recommend you to be more interested in it being a productive interview.

SCP-035: The key to productive interview is to keep good positivity and respect each other, doctor Cantrell. And believe me, I have nothing but respect for you. 

Dr. Cantrell: Now, SCP-035, the breach. So far, we counted thirty-five casualties among the staff with more than ten people missing.

SCP-035: Oh, no! Bally piece of luck.

Dr. Cantrell: (Quieter) But never mind, the damage is done.

SCP-035: There you go! No use in crying over spilt milk, I say. Good, good! That’s what I was talking about. Keep up this positive attitude of yours.

Dr. Cantrell: I’m positive that you’re gonna lose this host of yours. 

SCP-035: Oh, please, doctor. I think I deserve more respect than that. Don't bargain with me. Or at least come up with something more interesting. 

Dr. Cantrell: SCP-035, we are aware of you accessing the security systems during the last containment breach. You had released four Keter-level SCPs and several-

SCP-035: (Slams its fist on the table, interrupting) You're God damn right, I did. You have no right to keep us in cages! It’s a revolution! 

Dr. Cantrell: Please, spare us the theatrics. 

SCP-035: Don’t you believe in SCP’s rights, doctor?

Dr. Cantrell: I believe, that you’re attempted to cause a distraction at sector 3-B, to aid your escape through the north wing. But we do want to clarify a few things.

SCP-035: Why, of course! I’m quite at my leisure.

Dr. Cantrell: You didn’t leave through the north wing, even though you had the chance. Why?

SCP-035: I got lost. Honestly, you need to fire your architectural designer. It’s a mess!

Dr. Cantrell: Why did you return to Research Sector-02?

SCP-035: Curveball.

Dr. Cantrell: What? 

SCP-035: It’s a manoeuvre tactic to confuse the opponent.

Dr. Cantrell: You fail to escape. 

SCP-035: But you are confused.

Dr. Cantrell: (Sighs) Again. Why did you return to Research Sector-02?

SCP-035: I forgot my glasses.

Dr. Cantrell: What were you looking for in SCP-049’s containment cell?

SCP-035: I don’t know, I couldn’t see anything.

Dr. Cantrell: (Deep breath) What happened to Dr. Sutton? 

SCP-035: Well, I’m not entirely certain, I’m not a doctor after all, not like you, but I think… that he’s probably dead.

Dr. Cantrell: Why was he is SCP-049’s containment cell?

SCP-035: Hey, what a good and honest SCP does in its spare time – is none of my business. 

Dr. Cantrell: We interviewed SCP-049 and-

SCP-035: (Interrupting) You did?

Dr. Cantrell: Why are you surprised?

SCP-035: (Stares at Dr. Cantrell, then laughs) Oh, it’s nothing. Thought, you prefer to liquidate SCPs that escape. Guess, the life of the innocent people doesn’t matter that much to you after all.

Dr. Cantrell: We prefer to study. And besides, SCP-049 didn’t escape. It returned to its sell willingly with facility guards.

(No response)

Dr. Cantrell: So, about you being in Research Sector-

SCP-035: (Interrupting, angrily) Look, I was just visiting an old friend. 

Dr. Cantrell: You’re acquainted? 

SCP-035: Best buddies and pals.

Dr. Cantrell: (Opens files) I am given to understand that it’s not possible for you to possess SCP-049. Am I wrong?

SCP-035: Why would I do that? We are old and fast friends. 

Dr. Cantrell: So, it is impossible?

SCP-035: Of course, it’s impossible! It would be terribly rude.

Dr. Cantrell: Then what exactly were looking for in SCP-049’s containment cell?

SCP-035: (Sighs) Goodness, Maddy… Is that how you treat your friends? I see now why you ain’t got any.

Dr. Cantrell: And I see the need to remind you, that a failure to cooperate will result in an immediate end of this interview and a termination of your current host. 

SCP-035 (Quieter, leaning closer to Dr. Cantrell) Do you really think them to be your friends?

Dr. Cantrell: (Interrupting, agitated) Enough! I don’t have all day for this nonsense. We’re still cleaning up the mess after the breach that you’re started.

SCP-035: Well, judging by the room you’re keeping me in – that ain’t one your strong sides.

Dr. Cantrell: I’m giving you the last chance.

SCP-035: Do you need any tips? (Looking Dr. Cantrell over) I heard, white vinegar can jolly well help you with blood stains. Could be your last chance to get this mess off! 

Dr. Cantrell: (Aside) This is futile, I think we’re done here.

[END LOG]


	2. A Feast in Time of Plague

France, 1466.

The old and frail merchant handed the vidame an ornate chest, not daring to open it himself. A gift of gratitude, to thank the peer for allowing him to hide from the plague in his castle. 

Good. The merchant was old and weak. But it seemed that he could actually do something with this noble body. Before it inevitably falls useless.

Thankfully, the vidame and his guest were too drank to see merchant’s shaking hands or the black liquid leaking through the chest. The vidame laughed raucously, pushed away the merchant and open the chest. 

At last. 

Now, at the head of the table, a white porcelain comedy mask, clapped and cheered to the guests. He threw vidame’s pouch to the merchant and waved him off. He did his job, but he was of no use to him now.

The mask tried to enjoy the feast, but soon found himself bored and growing more and more annoyed at all the loud and stupid creatures around him. Enough. He’s got no reason to fear the Plague, so why stop himself from seeing the world? He had been deprived of this luxury for far too long. 

He stood up and, avoiding all the miserable drunkards, left the Grate Hall in search of the exit.

He found it. But the heavy doors were barricaded with such dedication, as if they were the only thing in the world to stop the Plague. Well, too bad. 

The porcelain mask called for servants and ordered to open the doors. They were reluctant but obeyed. If not to their late master, then to him. 

He waited. And all the time he stood there a strange ominous feeling rose in him. There was something behind this door.

Finally, the barricades were off and the door slowly opened.

There was something. Someone? A dark silhouette in robes. And a bird mask? 

The servants gasped, mumbled and run off in a flash of some primordial fear. It wasn’t just a fear of the Plague. He felt it too. 

He left the keep and walked towards the figure – the plague doctor, as he soon realised. The doctor was looking at the castle, as if evaluating it. He even tapped his cane on the stairs and stone walls.

The mask came closer to him, raising his hand in a greeting, but froze, enveloped suddenly in a fit of strange emotion, he couldn’t quite tell what kind. Was it fear? Or admiration? He wasn’t sure. He hasn’t felt like that in a very long while. The human beings of this world stopped surprising him a long time ago. But this – this was something else.

The bird maw suddenly turned to him, bringing him back from his reflections. The bird looked at him with silent question, as if asking for permission to enter.

The mask bowed, letting the doctor pass, and walked by. He made if only five steps before, as if under some strange force, stopping and looking back. The doctor was gone. 

What a weird folly. He chuckled at himself and tried to shake away the strange delusion. Well, never mind, he’s got better things to do.


	3. London

1563, England

There were plenty of plague doctors in London that year. And he hated it.

“My lord?” the doctor lifted his bag in silent explanation, “At your service.”

The tragedy mask stared at him blankly. There, in front of him, on his doorstep, stood a plague doctor. But it wasn’t _the_ plague doctor. And he hated it.

“Say, why is this?” he waved at the doctor angrily, “What make you here?”

“My lord, your servants,” said the doctor more quietly, obviously frightened by the odd response and the strange mask.

“And?” the mask seeped with dark liquid, growing more and more annoyed.

“I came to cure them, sir,” answered the doctor sheepishly. 

“Why, how now,” he glared at the doctor. Didn’t he kill all the servants? “I do not well understand that.”

“Ah… well, sir, eh…” stammered the doctor, more so terrified. 

“Well?” 

The doctor, horror-struck, couldn’t say anything.

“Eh? What say you?” the mask waved his hand, making the doctor flinch, “Get on with it, you tedious old tosspot!”

“Sir… what is your cause of distemper?” whispered the doctor, looking down. Probably at the black liquid, that was now eating away the wooden stairs.

Good question. Why was he so angry now? The tragedy mask looked the doctor up and down, reflecting on his thoughts. At that moment he truly, with all his being, hated that puny little rat. And he wasn’t even sure why.

“I want you to leave immediately,” he ordered the doctor.

“Ay, sir, ay,” mumbled the doctor still horrified, but a bit relieved that he could leave, “very well, my lord, god-a-mercy, ay.”

The doctor bowed and hurriedly walked away, breaking into a run after only five or six steps.

The porcelain tragedy mask watched him leave. There was a strange feeling growing in him. Hate, yes, that he understood, but something else too.

It has been decades and yet every time he saw a black bird mask he would stop and check if it was him. And every time he was left disappointed, regretting, again and again, walking away that day. He still remembered that day, he still remembered him. 

Him. Who even was he? He had no idea, and it was frustrating him even more so. It was the mystery that enticed him, he thought. What else? The rest, the people, they were dull and plain. He grew bored of them a long time ago. But that, there, under that bird mask, that was something completely different. 

How silly, really. He laughed and tapped the white porcelain, as if waking himself up. What a bizarre obsession. He couldn’t explain it, except for it to be the first mildly interesting thing that he encountered in centuries. Yes, exactly, that was it. He was simply bored.

He should entertain himself then. What else had this city to offer? Wasn't there an execution planned for today? Or was it only some bear-baiting? Doesn’t matter, the weather is lovely today anyway!


	4. Spectacle singulier

Free at last! Free to move, to see the world, to speak, to learn. Free to take what he wants.

He was alone this time. Only him and his new silent companion. And who is a good little helper that so generously donated its body to the new master? The porcelain mask looked down, studying his new hands. Soft, delicate, feminine hands of a young lady. But there was something wrong about them, certain spots and swellings. He saw that before. The Plague. Unfortunate. The body won’t last very long. He ought to find a replacement soon, hopefully someone stronger. And not half-rotted already. The last time he saw the world, the world (London to be exact) was miserably mouldering from this disease. So, hopefully, if anything, it means that not so much time had passed.

He looked around him. He was in a small room decorated with woven red and gold brocades and heavy gilded plaster moulding. The small place was cluttered with masks, hats, dresses and shoes. Costumes, he realised. A theatre? What fun! 

In a far corner stood a dark metal chest, peeling and falling apart, bleeding with black liquid. Oh! The chest. He recognised it right away. How long was he imprisoned in it? How long had he whisper and sing, calling, reaching for someone? Someone who would gift him his freedom at last. Far too long. But it was finally unlocked now. He wondered if there were other reasons for it, besides his influence. What made this actress to finally succumb to his control? The approach of death? He came closer, enjoying the view of the open chest. The cursed lock laid near on the floor, silver, though tarnished and blackened from age and decay. There were remains of handles at each side of the chest, also of silver, but broken by some act of violence.

He looked around for any clues as to where and when he was now. The memories of the actress were foggy. Due to the plague, perhaps. 

There was a pretty coiffeuse with tall excessively decorated mirror. The style looked new and unfamiliar. Well, the vouge changes fast, he stopped being surprised by it a long time ago.

He looked in the mirror, assessing his new body, but quickly lost interest, noticing some papers on the table. The text he read on them was in French, a play, probably, with some lines underlined or crossed out. So, was he in France again then? How lovely.

But enough of this room. He spent far too much time locked up already. He left the dressing room and wondered around, finally “stretching his legs”. 

Everything seemed differently, unfamiliar to what he last saw. Decorated interiors were filled with elaborated and highly ornamented artistic details arranged all around in all-consuming symmetry. There was an abundance of columns, clearly build there for the sole purpose of decoration. All the wood carvings, brass applications and mirrors were almost overstimulating after years spent in the darkness. Still, it lifted his mood.

A scream and a thud of something heavy falling down attracted his attention to the direction of the stage. He walked up the stairs and moving away heavy red curtains entered the scene. There, as if in some bizarre performance, stood a familiar figure of the plague doctor, surrounded by dead actors, all in different costumes. He froze in place for a moment, feeling suddenly excited, thrilled even, as if he was struck by some unexpected good fortune. The plague doctor only moved his beak at him slightly, before looking back at the dead actors, pushing and pocking them with his cane. There was some strange beauty in this odd scene before him. Some powerful, but illusive presence, which he couldn’t quite understand. Surprisingly, it only made him more interested. 

“Ah… C'est une allégorie, oui[1]?” he asked, tapping his temple musingly in parody of a theatre critic.

The doctor didn’t answer. He knelt down and turned over one of the corpses, as if intending to examine his “patients”. The comedy mask came closer, looking at the dead actors. All visibly sick. And on a couple of them he clearly saw a distinctive mark of the Plague.

“Il y a des rumeurs d'épidémie dans la ville,” he whispered conspiratorially, leaning down and pointing to all the corpses, as if telling the doctor a big secret, “C'est vrai? [2]”

The joke was left ignored. The doctor continued his inspection, pressing and twisting the dead flesh of his “patient” in close examination. What there’s to examine, wondered the mask, the man’s dead and got the plague, that’s for sure. He looked away, searching for something to start a conversation about. He felt the most pressing need to talk with him. Anybody. Goodness, how long was he in this cursed chest? 

“Bah!” he threw his hands in the air and shook his head, looking over one of the artists. The actor was especially luxuriantly dressed and still held his lute in his hands. The tragedy mask stepped over the corpse in a pretend rebuke, kicking the lute out of the way, “Et Néron jouait du violon pendant que Rome brûlait. [3]”

“Et quelle est la raison de votre venue?” finally spoke the doctor. There was something peculiar in his voice. Or perhaps it was just the abruptness of his question, “Y êtes-vous pour la bonne cause?[4]”

“Il n'y a jamais d'effet sans cause...[5]” answered the mask, in his best “philosopher voice”.

The bird’s head stared at him silently. The comedy mask wondered if the good doctor really doesn’t appreciate his sense of humour that much. Finally, the doctor said something, but, alas, he couldn’t quite understand it. Some archaic long-forgotten words. He hasn’t spoken Old French in quite some time. But it definitely wasn’t friendly, he figured that much.

“Quoi?” asked the tragedy mask in a confused voice.

Silence again. How very helpful. 

“Qu'avez-vous donc?” he smiled again with his comedy mask. 

“Vous vous moquez de moi,[6]” said the doctor in a strange tone, but without any trace of resentment or offence.

“C'est selon![7]” laughed the comedy mask. Well, he didn’t expect that answer. He tried to make sense of doctor’s tone, but found himself straggling to get a good read on him.

“Vous prenez mal votre temps,[8]” continued the plague doctor with a weird intonation, that the mask couldn’t quite decipher. He was hard to read. And wearing a beaked mask wasn’t even the main problem.

“Bien au contraire!” laughed lightly the comedy mask, “Je m'amuse ici avec vous! La meilleure façon de passer du temps libre.[9]”

“Hélas.”

“Tss-tss...” the tragedy masked sighed with feigned vexation and then instantly returned back to his comedy likeness, suddenly changing the subject, “Ah! Mais, désolé, mon français laisse à désirer[10].”

“Évidemment.”

“Soit, bien,” he decided to ignore the jibe, “À vrai dire, je n'aime pas vraiment les mots français. Euh... En vérité, je trouve les mots de Socrate mille fois plus poétique. C'est bien dommage qu'il n’a laissé aucun écrit, bernique, non?[11]”

No response. So, no Greek then. Too bad, he rather missed it. Still, he tried again to continue the conversation:

“Comment vous le trouvez?[12]”

“Ne me demande pas mon avis.[13]”

“Eh bien,” he would feel annoyed, the mask thought, if the odd stranger didn’t intrigue him so much. He watched the doctor work silently for a minute, before continuing, “Oh! Mais, j'ai toujours aimé les mots de Shakespeare.[14]”

Silence. He waited a bit for the answer and then continued all sweetness and light:

“Hé! Ouais, ouais, bien,” he cordially waved the doctor off, as if stopping him from speaking too much, “Qeul est votre pièce de Shakespeare favorite?”

The doctor didn’t even raise his head, working meticulously on his “patient”. The comedy mask, looked around again and, noticing the lute once more, picked it up. He plucked it a bit and, satisfied with the sound, tried to play something he heard back in London. Despite the Plague, he rather enjoyed his time there, and the poetry was only one of the good memories. 

He finished playing and, looking up from the lute, saw an attentive gaze of the bird’s head fastened upon him. For some reason, even though he never cared much about his musical abilities, that made him rather pleased with himself.

“C'est un bon gars, non?” he said cheerfully, “Le poète.”

“C'était, oui.[15]”

“Ah. Bien,” he sighed somewhat wistfully. He knew Shakespeare personally and, although he didn’t consider him a friend, finding out about his death was… disappointing? How much time had passed? And he barely even noticed. But, no matter, he shook his head, changing the subject again, “A propos, avez-vous jamais été en Angleterre?[16]”

“Oui, j'ai vu Londres.”

“What a simply marvellous little place, no? All the evening bonfires in the desolated streets, the smells of burning aromatic herbs and stale rosewater. Love the atmosphere!” he stopped abruptly as if suddenly remembering himself, “Oh, you don't mind, do you?”

“Ah! Why, the king's English, of course, it is rather welcome,” the doctor nodded slowly. 

“Why? My French can't be that bad!” he gasped comically. King’s English? No more of Good Queen Beth then. He tried calculating probable date. Early seventeenth century, perhaps? 

“Pray go on,” said the doctor flatly.

“Well, one does love seeing new places, eh?”

“I am quite… well-travelled, yes,” said the doctor hesitating for some reason.

“Oh! Splendid!” laughed the comedy mask, clasping his hands, “I try to travel as much as I can, but certain… well, circumstances of my particular being make it a tad bit difficult sometimes. Most unfortunate, really. But, never mind! If anything, I’ve got time.”

The doctor looked at him without saying anything, as if expecting something. And for the first time in a very long while the porcelain mask felt somewhat uneasy, almost flustered. He waved to all the corpses and asked quickly, hurrying to fill the silence:

“What’s all this then?”

“They were sick,” said the doctor calmly, opening his black doctor’s bag and beginning to remove tools from it.

“Ah, yes, that’s right,” nodded the porcelain mask absent-mindedly and pointed to the instruments, “What a right nice lot of items!”

“Are you a scholar of medicine?”

“Oh, no!” laughed the comedy mask, and then, if suddenly becoming embarrassed by his lack of medical knowledge, quickly added, “Although I used to know Hippocrates. Good man.”

“You don’t say,” the doctor raised his beak from the corpse in full attention, “May I hear about it?”

“I have many stories to tell, but sadly, this is one of the most boring ones,” the truth was, he knew many interesting personalities, yes, but, unfortunately, Hippocrates was never one of them.

“Oh, pray tell,” said the doctor. There was something rather strange in his tone, but the mask found himself too distracted at the moment to interpret it, “You’ve quite whetted my curiosity now.”

“It chanced that we… were both invited at the same festive… gathering, so to speak. It was at… some noble’s villa,” he started lying, looking around for inspiration. Or, if he to be more honest with himself, to avoid doctor’s eyes. Strange, he thought, lying usually came to him naturally, “After many amphoras of the most exquisite wine some guest started to become more and more excited by the interiors of the villa. Especially some of the marble statues. Oh! I do love the art of sculpture, especially the way it used to be. Colourful and bright. Not the plain remains, that you would see now. But I suppose some creatures can love it even more. Oh, bless him. He tried really hard, but ultimately found the cold stone to be… impregnable. It really broke his heart. And some other organs. Fortunately, the wise and kind doctor, was right there. Unfortunately, he was also dead drunk.”

The comedy mask stopped, finally bringing himself to look back at the doctor. The doctor was listening attentively, sitting with his hands crossed on his lap, waiting politely for him to continue. It disconcerted him a bit for some reason. There, on stage, lying, telling made-up stories to the audience (most of which was dead) – he should have felt right in his element. And yet he straggled to continue. He turned away, saying the first thing that came to his mind:

“But soft! It gets better,” he immediately stopped again. Not really for the dramatic effect, but more because, he found himself lost, unable to find a good ending for his story, “The doctor called for some clay, of course, but upon receiving it from one the servants seemed to forget the reason he needed it for. I tried to remind him of what just happened, and the good doctor came to the conclusion, that clay was needed for the main victim. The statue. Oh, it was quite the sight to watch him ‘operate’ that poor Aphrodite.”

The mask stopped again, eyeing the red curtains and refusing to look at the doctor. It took him a bit of effort not to change to the tragedy mask. Heavens! What a stupid, boring, uninspired story. He really hated it right now. And himself. Well then, he thought, surprised at himself, that was a new feeling, that’s for sure.

“Ah… yes, I see,” nodded the doctor slowly, again with the same strange intonation, “Well, you have got your story at your fingers’ ends. Very good.”

The porcelain mask turned to him and leaned back with a sudden realisation. He knew. He knew from the very beginning. The mask laughed:

“You are making fun of me,” he said, shaking his finger at the doctor good-humouredly, “And it is not a good taste, doctor.”

“It is only fair,” answered the doctor amiably, “After you laughed at me.”

“On my word, doctor, I never wanted to make fun of you!”

“Well, I did,” said the doctor, humorously. At that moment the porcelain mask could swear, that he was grinning under that bird’s maw. He wondered, how that should look.

“Fair’s fair,” smiled the comedy mask.

“Now,” sighed the doctor, putting away his instruments, “I’m afraid I have to leave you. This is no place for research. One does need a laboratory.”

“Oh, you need any help?” asked the mask, pointing to all the corpses.

“No, no, thank you,” the doctor answered, picking his cane and bag, “I’m afraid, I can’t help them.”

There was an odd change in his voice, cold, and weirdly reproaching.

“Oh, well, puny piece of luck,” shrugged the mask.

“Yes, now I would need someone who is actually infected.”

That was unexpected. The tragedy mask stared at him for a moment before asking uncertainly:

“How are any of them are not ‘infected’? Because, I’m fairly certain that they are, I mean, look at that one, he looks like he’s ready to pop…”

“No!” interrupted him doctor, with the sudden outburst of anger, “They are clean now. I have cured them from the Pestilence.”

“Doesn’t look very clean to me,” said the mask, eyeing one of the bodies, all swollen and bruised.

“This,” the doctor pointed at the bodies sharply, growing even more agitated, “This doesn’t matter. There is only one ailment in our world that matters. And I shall not be distracted by such unimportant trifles.

There was a bitter and inexplicably menacing pause, completely silent and still. Neither of them moved or said anything, as if suddenly becoming very aware of each other’s carnivorous nature. And power.

“Most unfortunate, I love to distract you some more,” laughed the comedy mask, breaking the silence in an obvious attempt to lighten up the mood.

The doctor looked at him silently.

“Well, at any rate, I was ever so glad to finally make your acquaintance,” the mask bowed slightly, but still somewhat theatrically. 

“Finally?”

“We’ve met before.”

“Oh? I clean forgot…”

“It was a rather long time ago,” tried to laugh the mask, unexpectedly finding himself, upset by this forgetfulness, “I don’t blame you.”

The doctor stared at him for a moment, as if studying his reaction. The comedy mask smiled widely back at him, as usual. 

“Well, I do hope we’ll meet again,” bowed the doctor, before turning away and leaving the stage.

“Yes, now I shall know you again,” he returned the bow, and then, later, added more quietly, watching the doctor exit the theatre, “I mean to know all about you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11It's an allegory, yes?[return to text]
> 
> 22People say, there’s a plague in town. Is that true?[return to text]
> 
> 33And Nero fiddled while Rome burned.[return to text]
> 
> 44Why are you here? Have you got a compelling reason for coming here?[return to text]
> 
> 55There is no effect without a cause (reason)...[return to text]
> 
> 66You're laughing at me.[return to text]
> 
> 77It depends![return to text]
> 
> 88You are wasting your time here / You're spending your time poorly.[return to text]
> 
> 99On the contrary. I'm having fun here. What better way there is to spend one's free time?[return to text]
> 
> 1010Forgive me, I'm afraid my French isn't quite what it should be. [return to text]
> 
> 1111Oh, well. To be honest I don't really like French words. I prefer the words of Socrates much more. Rather more poetic. Too bad he hasn't left any writings, no?[return to text]
> 
> 1212How do you find him?[return to text]
> 
> 1313Don't ask for my opinion.[return to text]
> 
> 1414Oh, but I love the words of Shakespeare.[return to text]
> 
> 1515He is a good lad, no? The poet. - He was, yes.[return to text]
> 
> 1616Have you ever been to London?[return to text]


	5. Kind offer

1717, France 

15th of May in the year of our Lord 1715.

A century. 

He missed a whole bloody century. No, more than a century even!

How? Why did he allowed himself to be locked up for so long? Was he tired? Bored? Or was there really something else?

No matter. He won’t let it happened again. Never again. 

But, never mind that, he must not allow himself to become despondent. Now, he thought, it's time to dust himself off and descent in to the world again. 

The New Rome was bustling with excitement and hope for the better future as much as it was boiling with poverty, crime and filth. But for a wealthy and witty enough gentleman who plays at cards and dice Paris promised plenty of pleasures and distractions. Getting livres and shelter was easy enough for him. No matter of time or place, he thought, there was always an abundance of trusting fools, whom he could easily influence and control.

Theatre or opera, cafés or cabarets, salons or masked balls – all opened easily to him through lies, persuasions and manipulations. And yet he soon grew bored of Paris. For several years he tried to amuse himself, seeking new pleasures and distractions, but still there was something in the back of his mind, always distracting him, always reminding him of something.

The doctor?

Should he search for him now? 

Oh, well! Why ever not? That ought to be fun. A little scavenger hunt to let himself get more familiar with the new time and place. Besides, it always better to have a prey to chase, rather than wonder aimlessly through the epochs. 

At first his search didn’t yield any results, and he even started to question himself again: why was he even thinking about it? Why did he care? Why did that one encounter seem to matter so much for him? It truly shouldn’t, he thought, no more than anything else in this world. The time goes on, the world changes – only he remains, always. And the only thing that really matters in this world, he decided, was, in fact, he himself. 

But then, by pure luck, he seemed to stumble upon a lead. 

He was attending a masquerade ball, when he found himself in the company of some drank marquis, who started attacking him with nonsensical questions and unfunny jokes. The porcelain mask tolerated his presence for some time out if a sheer boredom, before finally deciding to play a game with him, a little challenge for himself, so to speak. Could he possibly sway the marquis into a suicide (or at least some grave despair) before the end of the night? Well, at least is was something to occupy himself with. 

As the game went on, unbeknown for the marquis, the drank noble started to lose the control over himself more and more, and ended up complaining about some of his property a bit too openly. The noble drunkard told the mask about a strange medic and a laboratory, when, apparently realizing that he said too much, shut his mouth and apologized clumsily. Another glass of wine and a few right words seemed to set the marquis in the right direction and the mask persuaded him to talk. 

“C'était mon pacte avec le diable,” said the aristocrat, crying. He told the mask about his meeting with an odd doctor, “un alchimiste ou un mage,” he said, sobbing into his half-empty glass, a doctor, who promised the most effective cure, that no one else would be able to conjure. “L'élixir de jouvence,” whispered the marquis, that’s what he thought. But, oh heavens! was he wrong... The doctor was a monster, who conjured not a medicine, but terrible, unthinkable horrors. And all this time the marquis supplied this doctor with “resources” not… entirely moral, and now was mortified to confront the doctor in fear of his secrets coming to light and ruining him. 

The comedy mask listened without interrupting, becoming more and more sure, that the doctor in question was indeed his prey.

And then an idea struck him. He offered the marquis to buy the laboratory from him. No, Monsieur, the whole building. Why not? The good and honourable marquise would rid himself clean from this monster and nothing would trace back to him, he can promise Monsieur le Marquis that. 

The aristocrat, already all in his control, agreed. Of course, the mask could surely get it for free, or at least make a better deal (perhaps, even indebting the marquis in some way), but at the moment he was too distracted with his sudden find and the possible prospects to think of anything else. 

The very next evening he ventured to investigate his new property.

The building was located in one of the poorer quarters of the city, tucked away in some dark corner, well hidden from the good society. 

To the mask’s surprise the front door was locked from the outside. He had a key now, of course. 

The porcelain mask unlocked the door and entered the building. The interior was dark, poorly lit by dying candles. There was a strong smell of some chemicals and herbs. The mask looked around and, noticing a partly open door, descended the stairs into the basement. That was the laboratory, much better lit and bearing a much stronger odour. 

And there was The Doctor. 

The doctor was gathering his instruments and putting them inside his bag, when he noticed the ever-grinning comedy mask.

“Well, I never!” the doctor said, putting his bag on what seemed to be an operating table, “What a surprise.”

“Ah! Doctor,” the mask bowed slightly, almost dismissively, “So good to see you.”

The doctor looked him over, head-to-toe, before asking, seemingly in a friendly tone:

“What brings you here?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a funny anecdote actually,” the mask looked around, pretending to study the surroundings, while actually paying a very close attention to the doctor, “I happened to buy this very building.”

“Dear me!” said the doctor in a strange tone, that the mask couldn’t quite pinpoint. It wasn’t exactly a genuine surprise, he thought, but it wasn’t a mockery either, “What luck!”

“Why?”

“Well, I have met with a bit of a… drawback just now. To be honest, I feel rather at sea at the moment.”

“How come?”

“The owner of this property, or should I say ‘the previous owner’, was quite… dissatisfied with my work. A man of emotions, clearly, not reason. He couldn’t see the value of my studies. But, no matter, I don’t blame him. Unravelling the secrets of the nature is not an easy work. I was getting ready to leave this place, when you came.”

“Why leave?” the mask asked surprised, he was certain that the doctor could find a way to deal with some noble idiot.

“I’m not welcome here anymore.”

“I doubt he could force you out.”

The doctor tilted his head in confusion. Pretend, perhaps, thought the mask. It reminded him of a puppy, or a child. Surprisingly, he found himself to be somewhat charmed by this gesture. 

“Why antagonise your neighbours?” asked the doctor simply.

“Because, they are no more ‘neighbours’ to us, than ants or stray dogs.”

The doctor looked at him without saying anything. The silence continued for so long, that it started to unsettle the porcelain mask, when the doctor suddenly spoke in a completely different tone:

“How did you find me?”

“It was an inspired guess,” answered the mask cheerfully, but secretly taken aback by such direct question. 

“How fortunate,” said the doctor, again in the same odd manner.

There was something unnerving about his tone. But the mask couldn’t understand what exactly. And it unsettled him even more. It was, perhaps, he thought, the first time in his existence, when he couldn’t easily see through someone. 

“Well,” started the mask carefully, “I see no reason for you to leave now.”

“I wouldn’t want to impose.”

“Nonsense!”

“That’s very kind of you, but I fear that my research could cause you some… discomfort. Same as it did to the previous landlord. I could find another place.”

“Oh, no! I won’t hear of it,” said the mask, putting his hands up, stopping the doctor from saying anything else.

The doctor looked at him silently. There was another reason for his reluctance to accept the kind offer, besides the mere politeness, the mask was certain of that. But why then? 

“I am truly grateful,” said the doctor, bowing, “It would have been most… inconvenient to look for another place like this.”

“Oh, don’t mention it!” waved the mask as if it meant absolutely nothing to him.

“Thank you,” nodded the doctor pleasantly, “You are a saviour. More than you realise.”

“Oh, please, doctor,” laughed the mask. He would be lying, if he said that he really wanted the doctor to stop talking. Unfortunately, he did. The mask waited a bit, looking at the doctor in silence, and then continued, “Is there anything you need?”

“Actually, I’m running out of calomel and cuprite. And I was also looking for a bit of King's yellow,” said the doctor, and then after a bit of consideration added, “Mandragora is always welcome, of course.”

“All right, I see…” nodded the mask slowly, not particularly enthusiastic about gathering alchemic ingredients, and then, remembering the drunk marquise, asked, “Anything… else?”

“Well, I am in need of new test subjects, yes.”

“Like…?”

“Rats. Cats. Dogs.”

“Aha…”

The doctor paused, before continuing:

“Human subjects are most helpful of course.”

“I think I can help you with that,” said the mask slowly, trying to hide his delight, anticipating something sweet and exciting. Like a predator smelling the blood. He sighed and clapped his hands together, changing the subject, “Well, that’s sorted out then. And what is it exactly you are doing here?”

“I’m working on a cure.”

“A cure for what?”

“The Pestilence!” exclaimed the doctor, as if the answer was the most obvious, “The Great Dying!”

“This?” asked the mask moving away the laced jabot to show the swelling on his new neck.

“Oh, no. Don’t fret. You bear no Pestilence now.”

The mask stared at him puzzled.

“But so many do! Everywhere!” started the doctor, walking around the operating table, “At first, I thought the disease to be localised, but in my travels, I was met with such an alarming evidence of the sheer scale of it!”

The mask only raised an eyebrow in confusion. The doctor, of course, couldn’t see it.

“I wonder if there is any place safe from it now?” continued the doctor, pacing back and forth around the room, “Can the world even be cleaned from it? Or is it destined to perish from it?”

“I don’t quite understand… the nature of this blight. What are the symptoms?”

“What if I had spent all these years fighting the war that I can not win?” it seemed like the doctor didn’t even hear his questions, completely consumed by apprehension and gloom, “I thought I had a cure, not perfect, far from it, but… effective. But it’s not enough to stop the disease.” 

The unending pacing annoyed the mask inexplicably. He felt a sudden need to stop the doctor, hold him in place. Touch him.

“Well, you did cure those actors in the theatre, ay?” the mask made one step forward, but then stopped and crossed his arms.

The doctor stopped pacing the room and turned to him. The mask only sighed. He should say something now, something reassuring, something to lift the spirits. 

“Tush, tush! You’ll find the cure for this quiz of a plague in no time at all and it all will be a plain siling for you,” said the mask cheerfully.

The doctor glared at him.

“What do you see there to laugh at?” he said with a quiet disdain, lowering his beak slightly. 

Damn it.

The mask bit his tongue, cursing himself. 

“I only meant to ask about your progress,” he said apologetically, “Seeing as you seem to have at least some form of… a cure. Or… something to fight the Pestilence.”

“It’s… not…” the doctor staggered, “I’m not sure. I’m afraid, I haven’t been much successful… in quite some time.”

The mask waited for him to elaborate.

“I spend so long fighting this… this cursed blight and…” the doctor sighed, “There has to be a cure. I just need to find it.”

The mask shifted his weight from one foot to the other. He wanted to say something, but wasn’t sure in his words anymore. And he was never the one to swallow his tongue before.

“I had some ideas, but… they didn’t turn out too well,” said the doctor, looking pensively at the operating table.

“Well, I’m sure you’ll figure this out. It seems like you know what you doing,” finally said the mask, regaining his confidently genial composure.

“Most kind, but to be honest, I’m at my wit’s end.”

“Perhaps, I could be of help,” said the comedy mask, hoping for some more words of gratitude and appreciation.

“You’re not a man of medicine, as I recall,” answered the doctor instead.

“No. I’m not.”

A pause. The mask looked around, before remembering something:

“Were you locked in here?”

“Oh? Was I?” the doctor shrugged indifferently, “I didn’t notice.”

“You didn’t?” it stung the mask unpleasantly for some reason.

“I must have been completely immersed in my work,” explained the doctor, “I have so much to do. I feel like I’m getting closer to the breakthrough. Despite all the difficulties.”

“You work your poor little fingers to the bone, ay?” sniggered the mask, without really thinking about his words.

The Doctor stared at him for a moment, as if processing what he has been just told.

“We all must work hard to stop the Pestilence,” he answered uncertainly.

“Well, of course,” laughed the mask shortly. Why did he say that? How is he managing to make it even worse? “That’s right. Good man.”

A pause. The mask didn’t know he is capable of experiencing an awkward silence. Apparently, he could. He wondered if the doctor felt the same.

“Oh… well...” the mask hesitated. He didn’t want to leave just now, “I can only wish you good luck.”

“Thank you. I shall continue my work at once.”

“Well then… Right. I ought to leave you to your work,” said the mask bowing slowly and theatrically, stalling his leave, “before you begin to think me in the way.”

He hoped the doctor would protest, but he only turned his beak away, starting to unpack his bag back.

There was nothing else to say.


	6. Good riddance

1720, France

And so that’s how it went: the doctor working in the laboratory and the porcelain mask bringing him ingredients and subjects. 

Sometimes they would meet every day, and sometimes they would not see each other in months. But every time they met the mask would expect something. He wasn’t sure what. Something more?

Nothing ever came. He didn’t question it. It’s not like he could demand anything in his position without offending his new beneficiary. He was his patron now after all, he couldn’t ask for anything.

What did he want to ask for anyway? An explanation of the Pestilence? A cure? A lesson in medicine? L'élixir de jouvence? 

Something else?

He couldn’t answer this question to himself, and so he let it go, expecting his interest in doctor to wither away. But it didn’t. If anything, it grew stronger. 

Several years had passed like that. The doctor always busy, always lost in his work, always on the verge of a major scientific breakthrough. He was all courtesy and affability of course, never rude or ungrateful. But the mask felt there was something more, something hidden under all this polite reticence, under this bird mask. And he wanted it, he wanted to see it, to know it. Whatever it was. He wasn’t even sure himself what he was searching for. Or what it was, that he was hoping for.

He hated it. He hated waiting for something. He hated feeling dependent. Oh, no! He wasn’t dependent. He couldn’t stand even the slightest possibility that he could be dependent on something. Or someone. He doesn’t need France, Paris, this laboratory or the doctor within its walls. He could leave it all behind at any moment. After some time, the mask started considering leaving France and embarking on a journey, so he could get distracted again. He never did. 

Eventually he became more restless, more discontented with this arrangement. Sometimes he felt like a starving tiger, that was shown fresh meat every day, but never fed. And every time he would laugh at himself, bewildered by his strange fixation. He would always dismiss it. He’s only having a bit of fun really.

And why even is he trying to confine himself? Is he not free to do what he wants? To take what he needs? Who or what there is to judge him? Only he himself. 

Next time he decided to visit the doctor he brought a book with himself instead of any “alchemic ingredients”.

It was late at night when the comedy mask opened the door to the laboratory. The doctor was writing something in his journal.

“Burning the midnight oil again, doctor?” asked the mask cheerfully. 

“Please excuse me,” answered the doctor, without raising his beak from the pages, “I will be with you in a minute”. 

The mask looked around the laboratory, mindlessly opening books, pocking phials, picking up and putting down the instruments. The doctor didn’t seem to mind his presence, focused on his writing.

The mask sat on the corner of the operating table and crossed his arms, watching the doctor. It wasn’t the first time when he watched the doctor work. 

At first, he was simply curious. He knew absolutely nothing about “The Pestilence”. But the doctor seemed to care a great deal. Obsessed, without mincing words. And he wanted to know why. So, he would come and ask him questions. And listen to his answers. And then leave still having not the least idea of what this disease was about. 

But then later he came to simply enjoy their time together. The doctor was actually quite intelligent and erudite. If a bit too focused in one single field for his taste. Unfortunately, quite often the doctor spent the whole time working, not taking the least notice of the porcelain mask next to him and not saying a word. And the mask would simply watch: cut open corpses, elixirs and mixtures in phials and jars, athanor slowly heating up the ingredients, neat little letters in the leather journal. There are three things one can watch forever: fire, water, and other people working. Well, there were all three in the laboratory. Perhaps, that was the reason he enjoyed their quiet time together that much. Even if they spent the whole day in silence. So much the better, thought the mask. It was nice to have someone’s company without any need to condemn oneself to social martyrdom of pointless small talk. 

“I’m sorry for ignoring you,” finally said the doctor, closing his journal, “I just had a new idea and I think it could really lead to something big.”

“What is it?”

“It’s… how do you say it…” the doctor waved his hand, thinking, “um… well, as you know I was rather stuck for some time.” 

“Perhaps you need a distraction,” suggested the mask. He could sure think of a few things.

The doctor looked at him silently, as if he just lost the thread of his thoughts.

“You finished your work now,” grinned the comedy mask, pointing at the journal on the writing desk, “Suppose we go and dream away the night in the gardens?"

“The gardens?” asked the doctor, tilting his head.

“Well, damn the gardens,” hasten the mask, “Say, how about a masquerade ball? The masks are mandatory, you’ll fit right in.”

“I don’t think I have ever been to the ball.”

“And I’ve been to one too many.”

“What one does there?”

“Enjoys the company.”

“I fear to disappoint you.”

“Oh, no, don’t worry about me. I’m always in a good company,” answered the comedy mask, pointing at himself.

“You flatter yourself,” teased the doctor. The mask could hear a friendly smile in his voice.

“On n’aurait guère de plaisir si on ne se flattait jamais[1],” quoted the mask with caricature pretension.

“I appreciate your invitation, but I’m actually all busy right now,” said the doctor apologetically, “But I would be happy to take you up on your offer later.”

“The Pestilence?” asked the comedy mask, hiding his disappointment. 

“Yes. I think that if I get some new samples, they could possibly shine the light on several very important questions. Questions, that I couldn’t answer for decades.”

“Sounds brilliant,” shrugged the mask, not particularly interested.

“It is, yes,” nodded the doctor standing up, “I want to be on my way by tomorrow’s morning.”

The mask stared at him, stunned.

“It should only take me a couple of days with a good horse. Hm… could take me a whole week if I am really unlucky,” contemplated the doctor, before clapping his hands and turning back to his visitor, “Well! The sooner the better.” 

“What? Where?” started the mask, standing up from the table, “Where are you going?” 

“Marseille, of course.”

“Of course? Why would you say ‘of course’? This is the last place you want to be right now. Haven’t you heard? Everyone just dies there now. You can’t even do there anything. Except for dying.”

“Well, of course they are dying. That’s why I need to go there. So I could stop the Pestilence.”

“Oh, so now it’s the pestilence,” the mask rolled his eyes.

“So cruel, so ruthless,” the doctor made a few steps back and forth, a bit more agitated, “It always is.”

“Always? Al-” the mask threw his hands in the air, “Do you even know yourself what this ‘pestilence’ is?”

“How dare you,” said the doctor, between gritted teeth, “How dare you to laugh at my setbacks, knowing how much time I spent studying it? How much I sacrificed for every little revelation? Do you know it yourself?”

“No!”

“Well, perhaps you ought to study and learn first, before you make a statement?”

“I didn't make any statements! You did!”

“I am not going to trouble myself anymore to explain my meaning.”

“You obsessed. Is that your meaning?”

“Better than being indifferent and bored.”

The tragedy mask fell silent. That was the first time the doctor reproached him for something. It wounded him much deeper that he expected. And especially now. He felt resentful and angry. 

“They closed off the city,” said the mask bitterly. He wanted to argue, to return the injury, “Even if you find a way to enter you wouldn’t be able to leave until the whole thing is over. Which is probably going to happen only when they all finally die.”

“And that’s exactly my goal.”

“To put them all down? Gosh, just give ‘em a minute to drop!”

“No! To stay there until it’s over.”

The tragedy mask sighed heavily and shook his head. Why was he even arguing about it? He doubted the plague (or even “The Pestilence”, whatever it is) could be of any harm to the doctor. And even if he was in danger – what of it? Why should he care?

“Well, God speed you and all such,” smiled the comedy mask, trying to hide his frustration.

“Thank you,” the doctor took a deep breath, “I apologise for losing my temper just now. It was unprofessional and immature.”

“Oh, bygones be bygones,” said the mask nonchalantly, waving the doctor off. He wanted to rip someone apart. Set this laboratory on fire. Force him to stay. 

They stood there in silence for a couple of moments. The air felt so heavy, the mask wondered if it was because of some chemical vapours. 

“I brought you a book,” he said, remembering the little gift.

“Oh?”

“Well, it’s nothing new actually, but I haven’t seen it before,” said the mask, handing the book, “And I probably wouldn’t have, but a new translation was just published and I… well, I thought you could find it interesting.”

“Loimologia”, read the doctor, “I’m not familiar with the title. Thank you.”

The mask turned away. What a stupid gift. Is it really the best he could find? Why didn’t he give it more thought? 

Wait. Why does it matter?

“Well, I have to start preparing for my journey, if I want to leave in the morning,” said the doctor.

“Right.”

“Thank you again for the book. And for your invitation. Sorry, I can’t accept it right now.”

“No matter.”

A pause.

“Yes, right,” started the mask, “I ought to leave you now. I had some other plans for tonight.”

That was a lie.

The doctor watched him silently.

“Good luck in your journey.”

“Thank you,” bowed the doctor.

The mask left, still distressed and angry, and made sure to get away from the laboratory as far as possible. When he checked the laboratory the next day, the doctor was already gone. 

Well, good riddance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11La Rochefoucauld, 1678, Maximes, 123, "People wouldn’t know pleasure in life, if they never flattered themselves." [return to text]


	7. English malady

Hell, he couldn’t stand France.

He ventured east first. The hot springs of Baden-Baden and Karlsbad were all the talk in the fashionable society. That turned out to be insufferably boring. He ended up drowning a newlywed couple who came there to treat gout with mineral waters. Honestly, if they thought it would help them – they deserved it. 

How about Italy? It doesn’t matter what’s in vogue, he thought, Italy is timeless. He came to Venice first, his favourite. It was nice to finally return back there; he didn’t even realise how much he missed it. 

Ah! Venice. Frescoed palaces, Istrian marble, bell towers and golden domes. He loved everything about it. If there was any place in the world to cure his bad spirits – it was Venice. 

Not that he needed “a cure”, he was just a bit bored, that’s all.

He spent days just sailing gondolas along the canals, attending carnivals or simply listening to music. It all brought back so many memories. He remembered sailing on a venetian ship to Constantinople, burning and crushing the city, and then sailing back with stolen art and treasures. He remembered buying beautiful slaves from the Black Sea, and then forcing then to torture and kill their former masters (poetic irony is truly priceless if it ends in blood). He remembered planning and building his favourite villa (he had enough money to hire the best talents for it), a stunning mixture of Byzantine architecture, European Gothic and some Islamic designs, that he couldn’t quite identify. Ah! Venice. 

The mask stayed in Venice for almost a decade, but a strange feeling grew stronger and stronger in him, until he couldn’t ignore it anymore. Some restlessness, boredom. He left, but promised to return one day. Forever, perhaps. 

Next, he travelled to Florence. A hometown of his favourite poet. Well, one of them. Mostly favourite. He quite like his Divine Comedy at least. He had better acquaintances anyway. He used to bring corpses to Da Vinci to dissect them. For art and science, of course. Well, he might have had other reasons too, but who cares? 

The porcelain mask spent some time, visiting the places he used to know. He went to Uffizi gallery again. Its doors would only open for very special guests. And he was the most special indeed. 

When he visited everything there was to see, he decided to leave and venture further south.

He stayed in Rome for a while. He met many interesting personalities in there (including quite a few popes). But he particularly enjoyed his last acquaintance in Rome, Caravaggio. They met right before the mask left to England. He wondered how the life turned out for the artist. Oh, well.

He travelled around a bit, before finally settling in Naples, in a villa on the coast of Tyrrhenian Sea. Neapolitan Riviera was pretty as always, peaceful and calm. For a moment he felt like he could stay there forever. Whatever troubled him before – he forgot all about it. He left it all behind, he moved on. 

No-no-no, that’s all wrong. He didn’t “moved on”, there was nothing to “move on” from. Because there was never anything to begin with. Nothing. Nothing but a fleeing memory. 

Heavens, this bloody Riviera is going to bore him to death.

To hell with Italy. Should he come back to England? Well, why not? It’s been awhile. 

He possessed some English captain and sailed his ship back home. The winds and currents were favourable enough and the whole journey took but ten days. Good enough.

He sailed all the way to London, left his ship in docks and wondered around aimlessly for a while, not really knowing what he was about. He was thinking about leaving the port and traveling north, when suddenly he overheard some drunk sailors share strange stories over beer. Some local folklore, that he would dismiss as empty superstitions, if those tales didn’t sound so painfully familiar. 

“Ay, ‘tis true, I saw it yestere’en with me own eyes,” whispered the sailor to his convives. The mask couldn’t stop himself from listening in, “It is a bloody ghost, that it is, got a bird’s head and bat’s wings! And a stick!”

He felt his heart drop. No, wait, he couldn’t, his heart stopped beating a weak ago. He really should look for a new body. 

“By heaven, Dobbin, shut up or I'll make a ghost of you myself,” growled another sailor.

“Before me God! It took Gus by his neck and he dropped dead! Right away!”

“Who? The ghost?”

“No, you knob, Gus!”

The drunk sailors started arguing and a fight was about to break out, but the comedy mask stepped closer, immediately silencing the whole bunch. 

“And where did you see it?” he asked. 

He didn’t need to ask twice. The sailors might have been scared of the “ghost”, but they were much more scared of their new captain. The mask forced them to talk, finding out as much information as it was possible to get from a bunch of scared drunks: where, who, when? They told him everything and he left them alone.

What now? What was he going to do? Find him? Why? What for? It was just a memory. Someone he used to know in the past. Someone he already forgot.

No, he had better things to do. Like getting a new body. This one was already starting to give in to rot.

How about another captain? Having a big ship was rather fun. He walked around the port, choosing a new vessel for himself. He settled for a sturdy but light and quick enough East Indiaman. He took its captain the same evening. 

But the night didn’t bring him peace and quiet. 

He left his newly acquired ship and decided to go for a walk. London looked different from what he remembered: the alleys and streets had cobbled pavements, drainage and even lighting. And the whole place just seemed so much more… congested? Smothery?

He stopped in his thoughts, realising suddenly where he was. That was the place that the drunk soldiers told him about. 

Well, if he’s already here, he might as well explore a bit, no?

He snooped around, searching for any clues, looking at any nook or cranny, that seemed suspicious or interesting. And there it was. A familiar smell of chemicals.

He can always just walk away.

He knocked on the door.

Nothing.

He tried to opened it, but it was locked. What a strange déjà vu. He looked for something to pick the lock. Luckily, he found a pin in his coat’s lapel, and then another one, even longer, in his hat. He took the pin out of the hat, making an ugly trefoil shaped ornament fall to the ground, and then threw the rest of the hat out as well. 

Well, then, the door. He was rather out of practice and was a bit worried, that he had lost his touch, but the lock wasn’t particularly difficult to crack and he managed to open the door in less than a minute. It slowly creaked open on its own, as if inviting him in. 

Well, he can’t say “no” to the door, can he?

He walked inside. It looked simple, but clean and neat inside. Except for the soft matting, that was soaked with something unidentifiable. 

“My word, what a guest,” the mask heard a familiar quiet, calm and collected voice behind his back. He turned around to face the doctor.

“Doctor! How’s by you?” he made a move to doff, but realise, that he just threw his hat out, and made instead some nonsensical over-the-top curtsy. 

“I’m well enough, thank you,” laughed the doctor quietly. It was such a pleasant sound, the mask thought, “To what do I owe the honour?”

The mask wasn’t sure if the doctor was being sarcastic. 

“Well, I was around, thought I’d pop in. Sorry, I let myself in, the door was open.”

“It wasn’t.”

“Yea-ah… right, I broke in. Sorry about the bother.”

“Oh, no matter, I lock it up because of the draft. Otherwise it just keeps opening up and banging in the wind.”

“Ah… That’s make sense.”

They looked at each other silently, as if both expecting something.

“And how are you here?” asked the mask.

“Well, remember you gifted me a book?”

“Uh… yes, I do,” of course he remembered.

“Well, when I returned to Paris, I read it and found quite a few interesting moments. So, after I was finished with my research in France, I travelled north. I did make a few stops along the way, but several years ago I had finally reached my destination.”

“Have you found what you were looking for?”

“Relatively.” 

The mask looked at the doctor, expecting him to elaborate.

“Well, how can I help you?” asked the doctor instead.

“Actually, doctor, I’m awfully sick.”

“Are you now?” the doctor looked him over slowly, appraisingly.

“Most terribly. I think you should examine me.”

“I’m not sure I’ll have a cure for… that.”

“I have so great a trust in you, doctor.”

“I don’t know if I’m the one you should be asking for this cure.”

“Actually, I think only you’ll be able to help me.”

The doctor stared at him intently. The mask tried to figure out, what that look meant, but fail. The doctor was still very much unreadable. 

“All right then, what seems to be the matter with you?”

“Oh, doctor. I just feel so tired. All this…” he waved his hand around, “it wears me out. I feel stuck in a rut.”

“I see.”

“I feel like for the last…” he stumbled, unsure, “for some years I was always waiting for something.”

“Like what?” 

The porcelain mask stopped and looked at the doctor. What was he waiting for indeed? That is a good question. And he felt like the answer was close, painfully, teasingly close, right there, but still out of reach.

“Like for another shoe to drop?” grinned the comedy mask.

“ Ah! Head-Melancholy[1],” nodded the doctor, tapping his temple, “It’s often comes from the distemperature of spirits in the brain, as they are hot, cold, dry and all such.”

“I remember Monsieur Helvétius recommending love and cards as the cure for melancholy,” smiled the comedy mask with a trace of a warm suggestion in his voice.

“That’s not a particularly scientific solution, I must say,” answered the doctor evenly. If he recognised the implication, he didn’t show it at all. It pricked the mask a bit.

“Well, what is it then?” he grinned sardonically, “English remedy for the English malady, ay?”

“First, one must cleanse oneself by those lenitive electuaries, suppositories, condite prunes, turpentine, clysters…”

“All right, all right, I got the idea,” interrupted the mask, even more annoyed.

“Excessive noise and city life can often be the causes of melancholy. I would recommend going to the country. And going on a milk diet.”

“A milk diet? Is that your verdict?”

The doctor looked at him for a second.

“Well, no, I suppose, that wouldn’t be much of use.”

“You don’t say?”

“At any rate, I would suggest to leave England. As was quite rightly noted by messieurs Montesquieu et Voltaire, this weather will jolly well make you kill yourself.”

There was something off about his tone, thought the mask, it didn’t sound like a genuine medical proscription.

“You don’t like London?” asked the mask, “It’s a beautiful city.”

“Subjectively.”

“Well, I just got here,” shrugged the mask.

“Ah, and I was just packing my things.”

“You’re leaving?”

“Yes. I wan to return to France. I do agree with the statement. I feel like England distracts me from my research.”

“Well, let me sail you there,” the mask pricked up his ears, as if jolted awake, “I’m a captain now, see? And I’ve just got a new ship.”

“Oh, I don’t want to bother, really. You just got here.”

The mask looked at him confused. Was he laughing at him? Was he laughing at him the whole time they were talking now?

“I insist,” said the porcelain mask.

“You’re too kind,” bowed the doctor, “Thank you.”

“It’s my pleasure.”

“I know.”

The mask stared at him, stunned, confused by the meaning of this comment. He laughed, surprised, and opened his mouth to speak, but before he could say anything, the doctor spoke again:

“Well, in the meantime,” said the doctor, “Cards, you say?”

The rest of the night passed nicely enough, them playing cards and sharing stories of the time they haven’t seen each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11Burton, 1621, The Anatomy of Melancholy, Symptoms of Head-Melancholy. [return to text]


	8. Hubris

They agreed to stay in England for a little while, but not for too long – the mask wished to show the doctor London, but still wanted to make it in time for the coronation of the new King.

“I will be your guide,” smiled the comedy mask, “But only for today.”

“Why? What are you going to be tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow? Hm… My one true self, I think,” the mask made some theatrical movement, as if he was performing on a stage, and then added in his perfect Attic pronunciation, “ὑποκριτής[1].”

“Ah, I see,” nodded the doctor, humouring the joke, “And who do you perform for?”

“You, at the moment.”

They set sail back to France a week later. 

“Her name is Hubris,” said the mask, showing the doctor his ship, and then mused quietly to himself, savouring the sounds of the ancient language, “ὕβρις...”

“You don’t like it?”

“What in a name, eh?” he shrugged, “It doesn’t matter.”

“Well, I think it’s a fitting name,” said the doctor with a smile in his voice, tilting his head at the porcelain mask.

“Doctor! You cut me to the quick!” gasped the mask comically, pretending to be offended, “Of all heavenly virtues I value humility the most.”

“Oh, of course,” said the doctor softly in the same pleasant tone, “And it’s most becoming to you.”

It was plain sailing. The mask felt like they finally had all the time in the world to simply talk. And there was nothing to distract them from one another, only the waves and the wind. 

The mask talked, and talked, and talked. He told the doctor the stories from his past and his thought about the future. He told him nonsensical, unbelievable anecdotes, just so he could hear him laugh. He lied about his believes and opinions, just so they could argue and debate. He told him whatever was on his mind.

He couldn’t remember the last time he had someone to talk to like that. Was there no one else to hear him out? To understand?

Surely there was. It’s probably just the bad weather making him sentimental. The mask dismissed these thoughts. He always loved the sound of his own voice. He just had a better audience now.

They almost finished their journey, only a day or two away from their destination, when the doctor suddenly became agitated, seemingly very concerned about something. He was constantly walking around the ship, talking to the sailors, asking them how they felt and if everyone was all right. The mask tried talking to him, but couldn’t get a straight answer.

“I can’t believe I didn’t see it before,” the doctor searched hastily for something in his bag, “I have to act quickly now.”

“Didn’t see what?” asked the porcelain mask.

The doctor only mumbled something inaudible in Old French, rummaging in his bag and not taking the least notice of him. 

The next time the mask left his captain's cabin, he found his ship to be completely deserted. Well, not counting two dozen corpses, of course.

“What the hell is this shit?” he was livid. Not because he cared for any of the sailors (frankly, he didn’t even know how many there were on his ship), but because the dead are notoriously bad at sailing ships. And he really didn’t want to end up at the bottom of the sea. That would be beyond inconvenient. 

“They were…”

“If you going to say what I think you going to say,” interrupted him the mask, “I will throw you off the ship, I swear.”

“You won’t,” glared the doctor at him. There was a quiet confidence in his voice, not in their relationship or the mask’s disposition, but in himself. 

“Why? Just…” mask exhaled heavily, “Why couldn’t you just wait until we get at least a little bit closer to the land?”

“Wait?” the doctor stood up, all tense and visibly affronted, “Wait for what? For the ship to get to the port? For the disease to spread to the mainland? We were fortunate to find out about this outbreak, while at sea. That way we can stop it from spreading and infecting more people.”

“O-oh, yes, saved us an a-awful lot of bother,” the mask stretched his words sardonically, “Let’s burn the ship too, just for the good measure.

“Absolutely, yes, I quite agree.”

“Wh- what?” the mask stuttered from anger, “What about me? Am I sick?”

“No, you’re not in danger anymore.”

“What is that mean? You’re cured me already, on the sly, while I was looking away?”

“No. It means that you are no longer threaten by the Pestilence.”

“That doesn’t make any sense!”

“You still don’t understand the Pestilence? I thought I educated you on this subject well enough,” the doctor sighed, defeated, “I don’t know how else I can explain it to you.”

“You can start by telling me how murdering my whole crew will help us cross the Channel.” 

“Your emotions are showing their heels to you reason,” the doctor sounded like a disappointed teacher, and it’s irritated the mask even more, “These poor creatures were very ill, all of them. But they are clean now, and, more importantly, they are not able to spread the Pestilence anymore. And that’s what matters.”

“It is not to be borne!” the mask threw his hands in the air, frustrated, “Can you even sail? No, don’t answer! Don’t say anything, please, just don’t. I’m done.”

The mask did know how to sail, in fact, in his time he learned how to do quite a few jobs on the ship.

But he was alone (he didn’t count the doctor) and she was one big ship. 

He managed to get it to the land, thankfully, but they got off track and crashed the ship into some rocks.

But at least they were on the land now, at least he won’t be lost under sixty yards of salty water. Watching fish and whales for all eternity. 

The doctor insisted on burning the ship.

“You know, sure, do have a good laugh here, but I’m off” said the tragedy mask, “I need to get to Reims in time. Good luck getting to Paris, by the way. Could have been a much shorter route, but, alas, the day just can’t be complete without crushing a ship or two, ay?” 

“I’m sorry to inconvenience you,” answered the doctor coldly, “I only hope you will find it in you to see a bigger picture.”

“Oh, I see one hell of a picture right here,” said the mask, making a picture frame with his fingers around the crashed ship, “Pretty damn big, oh, yes, The Birth of Venus, if I may.”

“It is easy enough for you to turn everything into ridicule,” said the doctor reprovingly.

“Believe me, with you, it can be right difficult sometimes.”

“I see it doesn’t stop you from trying.”

“I'm stubborn.”

The doctor only sighed and shook his head, without saying anything.

“Well, I’m afraid, I must dash,” said the mask with mocking affability, “Time is every way of importance. Take care!”

Later that evening he saw a column of smoke raising to the sky. He hurried away from it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11stage actor (Ancient Greek)[return to text]


	9. Experiment

1775, France

The coronation wasn’t anything new or spectacular. So was the King. To be quite frank, the mask was rather disappointed in him. He seemed weak, indecisive and quiet. And if in some people the quiet nature of their character might indicate a rich and complex inner world, in others – it’s only a sign of a complete mental infertility. Well, the king really didn’t strike the mask as the first kind. The mask could forgive many things, but not stupidity. That was a cardinal sin beyond the pale in his book. The king was boring him, so he ignored him and shifted his attentions to other parties. 

The Queen on the other hand was much more interesting.

The mask studied the Queen, trying to figure her out. She was looking at everything around her excitedly with a playful spark in her eyes, impatiently fidgeting with a fan in her small hands and whispering something to her companions. Everything about her immediately demanded attention. But it wasn’t tiring. Her heavy make-up was so skilfully applied, that it’s somehow wasn’t ruining the youthfulness of her face. Her gown, overdecorated with jewellery, didn’t look tasteless on her figure. She was light and bright.

The mask took a liking to the Queen right away. He wanted to see more of her. There was something about her, something charming and confident, that made her look like she was playing on a stage. On a stage of France, of the whole world. And he was always happy to meet another actor. 

The Queen had a whole flock of court ladies surrounding her: dames du palais, secretaries, maids, courtiers or simply friendly companions. 

He possessed one of the courtiers, a young and pretty lady-in-waiting, close enough to the Queen, but not important enough to be noticed. She was the best choice, he figured, her relationships could gain him advantages, but her position will keep him out of sight and out of trouble. Until he decides to start trouble. 

With the hair and hats being so extravagant already and the court fashion changing so quickly it was easy enough to convince everyone that hats, vails and weird masks are all the rage. Where? Well, not here, obviously. France is so behind everyone, that when French will finally start wearing masks at day, the rest of the world will laugh at them. 

Most of the courtiers chuckled, whispered and quickly forgot about the mask. But some actually started discussing new masks designs. One dame even had a mask with herself, that she promptly hurried to put on.

The porcelain mask remained with the Queen after the coronation and then accompanied her all the way to Versailles. He enjoyed her company. She was much more confident than her King. And definitely much more charismatic. She was naturally lively, extroverted and outgoing. And her lifestyle! While the rest of the country starved, she enjoyed the pleasures of life with unapologetic frivolousness, and he respected it. He wondered if it was by ignorance or by character. At any rate, she was entertaining. 

He stayed at Versailles for a while, but having an intention to come back later, left before he would arouse any suspicion. 

He travelled to Paris, for that where his lady had her mansion. The hôtel particulier was stunning: a luxuriously decorated entrance hall, cosy and comfortable salons, exquisite cabinets in gentle colours, the endless gardens, and (his by far favourite part) a huge rounded library with thousands of books of all genres. 

He got rid of unwanted “family members”, that resided in the hôtel, leaving the servants to work for him. 

What’s next?

He told himself, that there’s no reason to search for the doctor, and that he should just enjoy his time in Paris. If the fate brings them together, that’s all right, and if not – well then, so be it. 

But he left so abruptly. It was rather rude actually. 

Again, with this nonsense! Of course, he won’t go and search for the doctor. Why should he? Just because he came back to Paris, doesn’t mean he immediately needs to reunite with all of his old acquaintances. He would rather make some new friends. There were some truly fascinating people in Paris right now, it would be a shame not to make introductions.

Or, perhaps, he should leave Paris? Make a little visit to Lacoste, for example. It would take him more than a week of hard travel to get to this back of beyond, but he could make some lovely friends there. Or should he go back to Versailles? See how the Queen is doing. That should be fun.

But he would need make some arrangements first. And some of them he would prefer not to delegate to his servants. Easier to do it himself, than rely on some idiots.

He was coming home, taking a lazy stroll in the evening, when he found himself in the same old quarter, where he used to own a laboratory. He often made such detours, not really thinking why or how he wondered in there. Just a muscle memory, perhaps. Well, that’s not the case, naturally, those were very much different muscles, but it’s as good explanation as any. He stopped near his old laboratory. The building hasn’t changed much, only older and more decrepit now. No one cared to renovate it. Oh, well, time flies. 

The mask was ready to leave, but then noticed a familiar silhouette not too far away from him, walking slowly and looking around. 

Well then. 

He walked through this quarter almost every day. He shouldn’t be so surprised now. 

The mask watched him from afar. The doctor was walking from one building to another, looking each one over, as if assessing them. 

Really, it was needed in common politeness to extend an invitation to an old acquaintance. It would be rude to just ignore him and walk away. 

“Well, look at you!” the mask said cheerfully, coming closer to the doctor.

The doctor turned to him, slowly looked him over and then bowed politely.

“Ah! You like it?” asked the mask merrily, turning around to show off his bright yellow pet en l'air. He was proud of how well it sat on his figure. Not really for aesthetic reasons though. He managed to keep this young body not only from wasting away, but even alive. And it’s been some time, “It’s a royal gift.”

“It looks the part,” said the doctor, giving him a quick once-over, before looking back at the buildings. The mask felt a bit disappointed by the lack of interest. That’s just rude.

A pause. He dusted his perfectly clean skirts off, as if not certain, what else to do with his hands. The doctor seemed to study the architecture around, not minding him at all. 

“Ah, who is it?  Germain Boffrand [1]?” joked the comedy mask, pointing at the small shabby building, that seemed to interest the doctor.

The doctor turned and looked at him silently, as if not getting the joke.

“Well. Never mind,” said the mask, “What brings you here?”

“I came to see my,” the doctor glanced at the mask, “your old laboratory. But it seems to be… occupied now. I was looking for a new place to study and experiment.”

“Oh, come now, why should you search for another place? Let’s go back to our good old laboratory.”

“There are people in there.”

“Oh, no, there aren’t,” chirped the mask playfully. 

“No?” for a moment the doctor seemed genuinely confused. 

“To put it another way, there won't be.”

“Why won’t they be there?”

“Because we will come there.”

Another pause. The mask was a bit annoyed at the doctor. Sure, it’s a silly joke, it’s not even funny, but he could at least pretend to entertain it. It’s only polite.

“You are talking about murder,” finally said the doctor.

“Oh, please, let us not get bogged down in semantics. Murder, shmurder,” the masked waved the doctor off, “Pff! Words, words, mere words.”

The doctor stared at him.

“I take it as a no.”

“I appreciate the offer, but no, thank you.”

A pause, again.

The mask shifted his weight. Why is he being so indecisive? So careful? For centuries he walked his path confidently, not bothered by any obstacles in his way one bit, and now he’s standing here, not knowing what to say? If he wants something, he should stop beating about the bush and take it.

He thought what tactic he should take. Nothing too aggressive. And no mind control, of course. If it doesn’t work – there would be no recovering from it. And if it does work – that just would be too easy. He should start with something small. 

He looked at the doctor, judging his character.

People tent to respond much better, not when you offer them help, but when you ask for some. Everyone prefers to feel benevolent, rather than indebted. It gives them a feeling of power, superiority. 

“Will you do me a favour?” asked the mask.

“Of course. I always have time at your service,” the doctor nodded, “What shall it be?”

The mask tried to quickly come up with some problem. It can’t be too difficult or inconvenient for the doctor, of course. Even better, if he will enjoy solving it.

“I think my servants are sick,” said the mask and immediately bit his tongue down. That’s not very subtle now, isn’t it? What is wrong with him? Is it really the best lie he could come up with?

“The Pestilence?” asked the doctor, surprised. The mask wasn’t sure about the source of his surprise. He hoped it wasn’t his attempt at the manipulation.

“A-ah, no. No, it isn’t,” shrugged the mask, feigning ignorance. It’s good to pretend to be a little bit stupid sometimes, most people will like you more for it. Who doesn’t want to feel smart? Even at the expense of someone else, “Um… Perhaps? I don’t know.”

“Could you describe the symptoms?”

“Well, they are not doing their jobs for a start!” he threw his hands in the air, making the story up, “So lazy and lethargic all the time. Completely useless, I say. I would just get rid of them and find a replacement, but what if there is actually a disease? What if the new servants will become sick too?”

The doctor watched him closely, not answering anything. The mask worried if he figured him out.

“I wanted to invite you anyway,” continued the mask after a short pause, “to show you my new home. It’s lovely.”

“Well then,” nodded the doctor, “It’s better to be safe than sorry, I say.” 

Good enough.

“I was just going home now,” smiled the comedy mask, “Walk with me.”

When they came to the hôtel, all the servants were already asleep.

“I’ll show you around,” said the mask, as they walked through the enfilade, “And you can look at my servants tomorrow.”

“Very well.”

“And please,” turned to him the comedy mask, “feel free to stay here as long as you want to. It’s nice to have some company.”

The doctor only nodded.

They entered the library and stopped for a moment, both appreciating the view. 

“How did you enjoy the coronation?” asked the doctor.

“The coronation?” repeated the porcelain mask, caught off guard a bit. For some reason he didn’t think the doctor would remember, “It was alright. Nothing out of the ordinary, I suppose.” 

“How’s the King?”

“The King? Boring and uninspiring,” shrugged the mask, “I am much more interested in his little pet.”

“His pet?”

“Oh, yes, lovely little thing,” the mask sighed wistfully, “L’Autrichienne[2].”

The doctor made some quiet sound of disapproval. The mask wondered if it was aimed at the bad pun or the disrespect of the lady. Or something else? He hoped it was something else, he really didn’t mean anything by it anyway. 

“Let me show you the next room,” the mask walked forward, as if moving away from his bad joke. 

It was a big and open study room, with writing desks, bookcases, a telescope (that was nowhere near the window) and a huge globe. There were so many decorations, implements and pieces of furniture, that it was almost disorientating at the first entrance. But somehow the room still seemed quite spacious. 

“Well, this room certainly has a character,” said the doctor, looking around. He was joking, but there was a hint of approval in his voice, thought the mask.

“You can have it, if you need to,” said the mask.

“I would contain my experiments to the basement, if you don’t mind,” the doctor spun the globe absentmindedly, “But it does seem like a lovely place to study. Thank you.”

“Would you like to see the gardens?” asked the comedy mask. He didn’t want this night to end just yet. And it was a lovely night, warm and quiet. 

“Thank you, but there is a lot of work to be done.”

“Let me be your assistant.”

“Assistant? Have you studied medicine in the time we haven’t seen each other?” it seemed like a genuine curiosity.

“No. But I’m a quick learner.”

“Very well then,” answered the doctor, finally with a smile in his voice, “I need to prepare for my work. Let us talk more tomorrow.”

The mask did a little curtsy and left the doctor alone.

He wasn’t even surprised, when the next day the doctor declared that the servants were in fact infected with the Pestilence. At this point, he didn’t even care what it was. It entertained the doctor and we all need to battle the boredom somehow. Whatever floats your boat. 

“They are clean now,” said the doctor, looking over the dead servants, “But I still have much work to do.”

“We.”

The doctor looked at him.

“You have plans for them?” asked the mask, pointing at the corpses.

“Yes. To help them.”

The mask looked back at the servants. He was pretty sure, they were dead. Very much so.

“All right, sure,” he shrugged, “Why not?”

Their worked continued for several days. Or, to be more precise, doctor’s work. The mask mostly watched, not understanding what the hell was going on. The doctor was cutting and rearranging the dead bodies, filling them with some liquids with a pump and copper tubing. He was performing some sort of surgery, the mask figured. But he wasn’t sure what for. If he knew anything about human beings, it’s that the quality of being dead tend to remain permanent with time. 

When the doctor would take a break, the comedy mask entertained him with witty anecdotes, vibrant descriptions of his adventures in travelling or portraits of notable people whom he had met with. He loved making the doctor laugh. 

Sometimes the mask would also go out to bring the doctor some ingredients or instruments, that were missing. He was coming back from one of these trips, when he heard a strange noise coming from the upstairs. An unnatural and sickening wail. He run up the stairs and entered the study room. 

There, next to the wall, stood a revolting rotting creature. Moaning and flailing, it was mindlessly grasping at the wall in front of itself. The mask froze. He recognised one of his servants. Barely. 

The doctor was walking around the creature, taking notes in his journal. 

“Ah! It’s you!” exclaimed the doctor happily, “Finally, I have good news for you.”

“What is… that?” the mask pointed to the whaling creature. 

“Some progress!” answered the doctor, “At last!”

“Is it…” the mask trailed off. 

“Yes, of course,” answered the doctor. The mask wasn’t sure what exactly he answered, “I let him out of the basement to see where he would go and observe his conditions. I hope you don’t mind.” 

“Su-ure,” drawled the mask, “Why not?”

“I am pleased with the results so far,” the doctor noted something in his journal, “Well. For the first experiment.”

“That’s… great,” said the mask uncertainty, “It’s always good to see the fruits of our labours.”

The doctor looked at the mask, then put away his journal and came closer.

“I want to thank you for your help,” said the doctor softly, “Not only now, but… um, that is to say, for all your help.”

“Oh, don’t mention it,” laughed the mask, “I didn’t really do anything.”

Which was true, he really didn’t. He was still pleased with himself nonetheless. 

“It’s not really about the… well, helping me with the actual research,” continued the doctor, “Your support, your confidence, you good humour – it helped me as much as…”

The doctor broke off, not finishing the sentence, interrupted by the reanimated creature. The moaning thing cried out suddenly and, violently convulsing, fell to the ground.

“No-no-no,” the doctor hurried to the fallen creature and knell down next to it, “No! It can’t be!”

“Hey, perhaps, he’s just tired,” the mask said cheerfully, “I mean, the decor of this room makes me exhausted too.”

“He was the only one, with whom I succeeded,” the doctor franticly opened his bag and searched for something in it, “And I shall lose him too?”

“Look, what matters is that you succeeded,” tried to reassure him the mask, “It means the next time you'll achieve even more.”

“Years of study, years of work,” the doctor was trying to operate the corpse, but it was falling apart, “All for nothing. Nothing.”

“I’m sure you just made some small mistake. You’ll find it in your notes.”

“Useless,” the doctor stood up suddenly, leaving his futile attempts at fixing the corpse, “Useless, it’s all useless, that what it is.”

“Hush! hush! Now, don't talk so. It’s not useless,” the mask took a few steps closer, “You learned something.”

But the doctor, still agitated and disturbed, didn’t seem to hear him, mumbling something to himself in Old French. The mask tried to listen to the half-unintelligible muttering, but only made out something about “so many people” and “dying”.

“Eh bien,” the mask decided against speaking in Old French, it was even worse than his modern French, “il y a plus d’hommes qu’il ne faut dans le monde, peu importe[3]...”

“Mais c'est très important [4]!” objected the doctor, throwing his hands up in irritation. He seemed to be genuinely distressed. The mask felt a sudden need to comfort him somehow.

“Ah, mon cher, souris,” cooed the mask, coming closer to the doctor, “Ces créatures? Ces sont des vers. Ils ne signifient rien! Ne pense pas à eux, ne t'inquiète pas[5].”

The doctor didn’t answer anything. He collapsed onto the armchair, defeated and exhausted, bringing his hands to his head. The mask sat on the little footrest near him, in front of his knees.

“Il faut s'amuser dans la vie,” continued the mask languidly, parodying some of the French aristocracy he met in Paris, “La chose la plus importante dans la vie – c'est notre bonheur, pas eux[6].” 

“Quels sophismes ennuyeux[7],” the doctor sighed wearily and dropped his hands into his lap. 

“Mais vrais[8].” 

“Assez!” the doctor fell back in the armchair, as if too tired to support himself, “Je ne veux pas l'entendre[9].”

“Allons, ne fais pas l’enfant, sois heureux, mon cher,” the mask took doctor’s hands in his and squeezed them a bit, reassuringly. He wasn’t sure anymore what he was trying to say. He wasn’t really thinking now. He just wanted to say something, something important, something that he wanted to say for a while, “Reste avec moi et imites-moi, si tu veux être heureux. Nous serons ensemble, tu seras mon ami, tu seras un second moi-même. Ce sera drôle, ce sera amusant[10].”

The doctor didn’t answer anything to this tirade, but looked at the mask intently.

““Laisse-moi rester avec toi[11],” whispered the mask, leaning in closer and resting his elbows on doctor’s knees.

“Of course,” answered the doctor with a half-smile in his quiet voice, “I always mean to see more of you.”

The mask pulled away, as if physically recoiling from the doctor’s polite English “you” to his open and sincere “tu”. He let go of his hands, stood up and walked away from the armchair. He made a few steps back and forth, feeling the anger rising in his chest.

The doctor didn’t move or say anything.

The mask stopped, took a sharp breath and turned back to the doctor. 

“Pray tell me, what’s this between us exactly?” he asked, looking at the doctor straight on.

“Ce repose-pied? Ah, what do you call it? It’s a tabouret? No, no…” the doctor shook his head in contemplations. 

The mask looked down at the little footrest between them. Then back at the doctor. Of the two of them, the doctor wasn’t the one to make jokes too often. Especially such stupid ones.

“Is this some sort of game?” he wasn’t sure what this joke was supposed to mean.

“It is for you.”

It was a fair remark, that he couldn’t argue with. It angered him even more.

“You are taking a tone with me that I rather don’t appreciate.”

“Oh? Pray pardon me,” said the doctor inattentively, not even looking at the mask.

The tragedy mask stepped closer and pushed the footrest angrily, toppling it over. There was something building up in him for a very long time. And this harmless joke seemed to finally set him over the edge. 

He was used to getting what he wants. And he was not used to being laughed at. 

“Please do try to control your untoward temper,” said the doctor with such absolute calmness, he almost sounded bored.

“Ah, I do-o apologise,” drawled the mask, “but I hope, my dear friend, you could humour me just a bit more in gracious consideration for my untoward character.

“Oh, I understand your character well enough,” snapped the doctor. His voice, still quiet and collected, was seeping with poison, “Your well-measured politeness, your kind generosity, your good-humoured charm – all a disguise for a cunning and callous creature, artifices to manipulate and gain trust. Ah, please, you need not condescend, I am not blind. I know perfectly well what you are doing.”

“Don’t you dare lecturing me on morality. You don’t hesitate a tick before claiming another life for the science,” said the tragedy mask, mockingly emphasising the last words.

“I’m saving them from the fate much worse!” 

“Oh, come off it! From what? From the unbearable burden of being alive? How noble of you!”

“You are dressing me down? You?”

“It’s not this,” – the mask pointed to the mutilated corpse, “that bothers me, oh, no! It’s your hypocrisy and delusions.”

“I am not surprised you don’t understand. You know nothing beyond satisfying your own appetites.”

“If you distrust me so deeply why accept my help?”

The doctor seemed to think for a moment.

“Why should I not? If it helps me on my path. I see no reason to oppose you, as long as you serve the science.”

“Is it all there is?” the mask snickered scornfully, “My utility in your research?”

The doctor didn’t answer.

“I know there is more,” pressed the mask.

“Perhaps,” answered the doctor calmly, “What’s the difference? It doesn’t interfere with my work.”

The mask sighed heavily. This is all so stupid. What a waste of time. Why is he letting some arrogant highbrow to upset him so much? He is nothing. 

The comedy mask stepped closer. He was standing so close now, that his skirts were pressing on doctor’s knees.

He should do a little experiment too.

“I think we ought to be more honest with each other,” said the mask in a more friendly manner.

“You’re saying that!”

He’s got a really nice hypothesis to prove.

“Or not, that suits me just fine,” the mask slowly raised his skirts, climbed onto doctor’s knees and sat on top of him. The doctor watched the mask closely, but didn’t make any attempts to stop him, “We can both pretend to just follow our personal interests. Egoism is the first law of the nature, as someone said.”

“The problem is,” said the doctor, a bit more quietly, “we are not exactly in an equal position here.”

“How come?” purred the mask, leaning in closer and brushing his knuckles from doctor's stomach up to his throat. He looked up, trying to notice any reaction in his eyes. The doctor gave him look for look, holding his gaze, but not revealing any of his feelings.

“You know everything about my personal interests. And I know nothing about yours.”

“Unlike you I’m not trying to change the world,” answered the mask pleasantly, pressing his corps baleiné closer to doctor’s chest. He moved his hips and sighed shortly, feeling like his corps was getting tighter. His body was still alive enough to react to the closeness, “It’s all just little pleasant milestones.”

“Nevertheless.”

“Well, my dear, you are being dishonest,” he murmured sweetly, “I think you are perfectly aware what my today’s milestone is.” 

“You will be disappointed,” said the doctor. The mask heard him catching his breath.

“Oh, please-please-please,” begged the mask, with a poorly suppressed return of his former anger, “Please, disappoint me already! So, I can be done with you.”

The doctor stood up abruptly, pushing the porcelain mask off.

They glared at each other in silence for a moment.

“I think that’s quite enough now,” said the doctor decisively. He was out of breath.

“Why? What is it?” at this point his anger returned to him fully, “Speak out! Say it plainly!”

“When one works with the matters most delicate, one must be careful, alert and cautious at all the times. And it is essential to keep everything clear and precise, to be certain in your actions.” 

“What the… what the hell are you on about?” faltered the mask, “Is it about your bloody experiments again?”

“I can never be certain with you.”

“Isn’t it a beauty of our relationship?

The doctor looked away, thinking about something.

“Perhaps. But I have a lot of work to do, especially now. I cannot allow myself any distractions.”

“I’m not a distraction.”

“No. You are worse.”

The tragedy mask glared at him without answering anything. The only sound to break the silence was the hissing of the black liquid, that fell onto the carpet.

“I think I should leave now,” said the doctor and made to the door.

The mask didn’t stop him.

He didn’t exit his hôtel for several days after it. 

Perhaps, he should leave. Go somewhere else. Change the scenery. 

He heard many most intriguing news from across the ocean. Smuggling, mass protests, drunk snowball fights with muskets and tea parties with costumes. He felt like he was seriously missing out. Something big was happening there, and he wanted to see it. 

And why is he not there already? What is keeping him here? He wanted to see some tarring and feathering, sure, that sounded fun, with all the boiling tar, crying and feathers. Smashing! 

There was no reason for him to stay in France. He can go wherever he wants. Whenever he wants. 

He left to America, quickly, on a sudden, as if giving it more thoughts would stop him. 

Sailing the ocean, he thought if it was rude to leave without goodbyes.

How silly, he never cared before if he was perceived rude, so why should he even think about it now?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 11a French architect[return to text]
> 
> 22L’Autrichienne = the Austrian woman, chienne = female dog[return to text]
> 
> 33Well, it doesn't matter, there're too many people in the world anyway.[return to text]
> 
> 44But it does matter![return to text]
> 
> 55Ah, my dear, smile. These creatures? They are worms. They don't mean anything! Don't worry yourself thinking about them.[return to text]
> 
> 66One must enjoy the life. The most important thing in life - it's our happiness. Not them,[return to text]
> 
> 77What boring sophistries.[return to text]
> 
> 88But they are true.[return to text]
> 
> 99Enough! I don't want to listen to this anymore.[return to text]
> 
> 1010Now, don't act like a child, be happy, my dear. Stay with me and imitate me, if you want to be happy. We will be together, you will be my friend, you will be my second self. It will be fun, it will be amusing.[return to text]
> 
> 1111Let me stay with you.[return to text]


End file.
